


The Not-Quite-A-Fall

by GentleGiraffe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: mr. 'hung the stars' is burning out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 15:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentleGiraffe/pseuds/GentleGiraffe
Summary: Crowley's painful transition from Heaven to Hell.





	The Not-Quite-A-Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you thank you to the wonderous Ray (coffeespoonfull on tumblr) for helping with edits and questioning my confusing af metaphors.
> 
> I'm about as good as Newt when it comes to technology so I couldn't figure out how to put proper footnotes in (sorry)

To describe it as a fall (1) may be a bit dramatic, and yet not entirely untrue.

> 1\. Fall (verb): move downward, typically rapidly and freely without control, from a higher level to a lower level 

He was fired, essentially. Demoted “without control.” Moved to a different office, with a different boss, and different work expectations. It’s all very bureaucratic, isn’t it?

“Saunter vaguely downwards” makes it sound more like his choice. Like he wanted to stray from heaven and their tight grasp. He had been heading over the line, edging his way out on the tightrope further and further. It was almost fun to push his limits, ask his questions. But he was never too worried about losing his position. He helped pin the stars to the sky. Created massive balls of energy and light that would be poetic inspiration for years to come. Something like that doesn’t go unnoticed, and it hadn’t. Crowley’s wings had been speckled with gold from that point forward. Covered with stardust. 

No, he felt fairly comfortable around the Almighty (2), or the Metatron at least. 

> 2\. The Almighty doesn’t make too many direct appearances, understandably so. Though it sure was nice the time She came around for a second-that-felt-like-a-week as the-then-angel gestured towards his magnum opus, feeling the gears churning in Her head as She worked out the impact a creation like that may have, the smile spreading on Her suspiciously stoic face. 

And Crowley didn’t intend to abuse his power, he just felt it would allow him to be a larger part of the discussions. See, he had his place there, and having a secure place somewhere allows you to press against the edge and wonder what might be outside. You don’t tip your head out a 30 story window if you aren’t confident the glass will stop you from plummeting. “Sauntering.” Falling.

This embarrassment was never his plan, though. Where was this written? Was this Divine, was this necessary? Crowley huddled on the ground, shrouded by his wings. His middle-of-a-star white and golden flecked wings. He felt as though he had been kicked. The pit of his stomach, the center of his being burned with shame. He had just hoped to help expand the human project. He wasn’t looking to change it completely, just explore the Creator’s boundaries a bit. But it was too much. The Almighty was protective, and Crowley had pushed too far. The fabric of their relationship stretched and then it ripped and Crowley was laid bare. Exposed. No longer trusted. No longer valued. No longer Good.

They say malice drips, but this had been a slow collection. The words gathered in the messenger angel’s mouth as he explained what was going on, like the last drops of honey hanging from the bottom of the bottle, collecting before they all come out at once. This malice was forceful, thrown, hitting Crowley directly as he worked to keep his posture. How do you tell someone they’ve fallen? “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

He saw Gabriel, his partner, his mentor and prodigy all at once, almost take a step forward, an almost comfort. Crowley stood straight and nodded his head curtly. No more words exchanged as he started walking down the corridor. His back rim-rod and his jaw set ahead as he walked, walked, don’t look back.

And now here he was, at the almost-exit. He crouched down on the ground to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t quite bring himself to complete his goodbye just yet but he wasn’t being antagonistic, wasn’t being forceful, so they left him. He was thankful he was alone, and at the same time he knew he had to leave soon. He’d never personally seen a demon cast out, but word gets around. Tales are told. Demons can’t survive in Heaven. They ache, they burn, they burn. All stars burn out, eventually. 

Huddled on the ground, Crowley made himself smaller, grasping at any last semblance of safety or comfort he could find. His wings shrouded him. The wings that brought him pride and satisfaction, compliments and good favor. The wings he knew were about to change.

Almost as instantaneously as he thought it, it began. He saw the feathery tips began to crackle, stinging with electricity. Like a piece of paper lit with a match, the ashy black inched outwards. No orange flames were visible but Crowley felt the heat. He watched it, mesmerized, horrified, focusing as his being changed. It was unbearable and he twitched. Convulsed. The black spread.

He stood and his body screamed, ached, his legs felt like lead and his back was on fire. The pointed heat of his wings sped down into his hips, and out into his arms. How could Heaven have turned on him like this?His employers, his family, his home were all the opposition. Crowley was the opposition.

A few feathers fluttered down around him, singed. They smelled of smoke and must. He coughed and felt the motion ripple through him. White hot and burning. Everything burned.

He felt the need to collect the feathers but didn’t think he would be able to stand again if he dipped down. Instead, he focused on getting out. He was close to the door, the edge, the waste disposal. His mouth pulled back in a grimace, a mockery of a smile, as he willed his body to start walking, moving, leaving. Slowly, clumsily, he made his way out.

Without control. The lack of tangible direction bounced in his head, somehow managing to make itself heard amongst the screaming, burning, invisible fire that wracked his body. His peripheral vision landed on darkness now. His wings were no longer light, reflective. They were ragged and gaping and hollow and black. He stood straighter.

As much as the entirety of him felt ancient and decrepit, he made sure not to stumble. He wouldn’t fall out of Heaven. He couldn’t. They were letting him leave with a shred of dignity and he was going to hold onto it for as long as he could.

He felt the staircase at the end of the corridor before he saw it. The first thing that felt Different. He didn’t realize Heaven had a comforting thrum to it until it wasn’t there. The familiarity had vanished and he felt suffocated by the atmosphere of, well, of evil, he supposed.

Sucking in a muggy breath he took a leaden step forward, down, down the stairs. Uncooperative angel-rejects were literally pushed out of Heaven and fell through the air until they landed in a heap at Hell’s doorstep. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure why they didn’t take this route with him (he was here for being uncooperative, after all) but maybe his defiance was of a different nature, or maybe they just wanted to give him one last work perk as he took his leave. He wouldn’t have minded the fall though, necessarily, as this descent felt unending, every second, every inch, reminding him that his life was changing.

He couldn’t miracle his way down because he was cut off. Unconnected. Heaven had disowned him and Hell had not yet claimed him. He was a demon in technicality but not yet in practice and so he stood and walked, every lift of his leg ricocheting pain throughout his calves and hips. His back seared, and his nose tingled with the smell of burning flesh. He moved down. He had nowhere else to go.

Maybe Hell wouldn’t be so bad. If he was sent here for pushing the boundaries, maybe he could be even more creative. He was just transferring offices. It wasn’t as if his entire identity was being corrupted. He wondered, briefly, if Heaven would get rid of his creations. Snuff out his stars, erase his impact. What an example that would set, huh? Sounded like something they would do. But more likely, they would keep them. He would be a shameful rumor, a wound infecting everyone’s curious minds. Oh the angel that made these, well…he’s not here anymore.

Crowley coughed and waved his arm as a fly buzzed into his face. He saw the walls oozing…something, and took a deep breath to steady himself, which unfortunately felt like swallowing a far too potent mix of liquors.

Again his glance wandered towards the wings that hung behind him, seared and marked. An embarrassment. What stood out even more so, now, in this damp and dingy staircase, was his stark white robe. It wasn’t part of him, it hadn’t Changed like his wings, like his tongue, like his eyes (he was suspecting). No, it stayed, a flashy beacon to alert Hell of their newcomer. To serve as a reminder of the place, the life, he was leaving behind. The life he was exiled from.

Suddenly Crowley felt hate boiling inside of him as well, mixing nicely with the electricity still stinging, the remnants of the fire still searing. If Heaven didn’t want him then he didn’t need them. He couldn’t mope about this change too much (3) It would be good to embrace it. To accept it. To explore it.

> 3\. But he would, it would come in spurts and he would feel overwhelmed with homesickness and it would make him nauseous and tired. He would feel exposed and try to curl up inside himself even more.

He found a rhythm as he walked through the pain, his legs off kilter and held high, marching him forward, down, down, down. And then, from a higher level to a lower level, he had arrived. The pain relegated to mere background noise as he took another sharp, deep inhale, placed his hand on the white-hot, steel-black doorknob, and opened the door.


End file.
